


The Perils of Prediction

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "The Deduction Thing", Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Healing, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Attempts To Manage His Own Emotions, Pining, Rampant Feelings, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, True Love, Vulnerable Divorced Greg, With The Usual Catastrophic Results, friends to idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-08-13 16:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: At a crime scene late one night, Mycroft Holmes spends a few moments alone with DI Lestrade and makes a deduction he never anticipated. But does Lestrade deserve such an unthinkable fate? And if love is so inevitable, how can it hurt so much?





	1. Loved

**Author's Note:**

> With all my love to Tasha for the wonderful idea, and to Arbie, who very kindly suffered first.

Our destiny is frequently met on the path that we took to avoid it.  
_Jean de La Fontaine, Fables Book VIII _

*

Something in his approach makes Mycroft want to smile—it's something in his stride, purposeful and playful. It's something in the glitter of his eyes. Lestrade is one of those men who never seems to age. He never wearies, and he never disappoints. He never fails to come over and pass a few words. 

Even on some grotty little backstreet in Croydon, just shy of two o'clock in the morning, he's a treat for the eyes as he comes Mycroft's way.

"Can't remember the last time I saw you in daylight," he remarks, and Mycroft permits himself an amused huff. It's true that his little brother's antics tend to take place in the small hours these days. This latest situation is now trundling wearily to its end, and this is Mycroft's prize for still being here: a few moments of Lestrade all to himself, those deep brown eyes to warm up his own.

"We're falling into quite the pattern, aren't we?" he notes. "Then, my brother's penchant for the dramatic does lend itself well to nocturnal settings."

"Maybe it's tradition for him," Lestrade suggests. Flirtation curves his handsome mouth. "Part of the process. It wouldn't feel like he'd properly solved it, if it didn't end with you and me commiserating in the street somewhere at god-knows-o'clock in the morning."

"Doubtless the case," Mycroft says, and smiles. "I fear I'm on the verge of developing a pavlovian response to you, inspector. Your moonlit arrival so often seems to accompany a migraine."

Lestrade laughs; he starts to search inside his coat. 

"That so?" he says. "Funny... whenever I see _ you, _ I need to smoke..." 

By the time he's produced the familiar tin of hand-rolled cigarettes, Mycroft is ready with a light. He offers it out with a click; Lestrade bends to catch the tiny flame from his hand, his dark eyes narrowing in focus.

Mycroft watches him, enjoying him. 

It seems so natural and normal to feel fond. Lestrade's always made it terribly easy, and six years have brought Mycroft again and again to this moment, quiet corners on quiet streets together, the two of them alone to share concluding cigarettes. Tonight, the soft orange glow of the lighter washes Lestrade's features with an intimacy he finds almost wildly appealing—every line around his eyes, every touch of shadow; every pretty strand of silver in his hair.

It feels rather right.

_ And why not? _Mycroft thinks. 

_ No harm in asking. _

"Perhaps we should engineer alternate circumstances in which to meet," he says. As Lestrade glances up, raising an eyebrow, Mycroft primes the words inside his mouth. "I'd much rather you associate me with French food and candlelight, inspector."

Lestrade's other eyebrow lifts to join the first.

It takes three dates before he believes Mycroft's serious. He's as wary as a once-kicked cat, slow to trust and quick to fear embarrassment, but the weeks are soon sliding by and they keep on meeting to have dinner. Lestrade laughs so much more in Mycroft's presence now. He sits closer in the car driving home. He starts to respond to casual texts during the week, playful at first, pretending not to recognise the number. He teases and he flirts, texting late at night._ 'Call me Greg', _ he says. _ 'Think you've earned it by now.' _

Two weeks into August, after dinner one Friday, he accepts Mycroft's offer of a nightcap.

He only leaves on Monday morning.

After the slow and gentle warming of trust, things start to progress at speed. The truth is that Mycroft is addicted to him within days: his mouth, his skin, the arching of his back against the bed. Greg becomes all his joy and all his comfort. All Mycroft wants is to see him, spoil him, steal him away for the weekend, take him off to bed and make the world erupt in colour all around them. 

After a lifetime without, it feels wonderful to be wanted. 

And in time, as the months and the years roll onwards, it feels wonderful to be loved.

It feels wonderful to find a home together and make it their own, filling it with photographs of the decades now flying by: summer holidays to old cities in Europe and white beaches in the sun; birthdays, Valentines and anniversaries, gifts on which Greg always spends far too much; John and Sherlock often here to stay for the weekend, board games, laughter, bottles of wine. Life is rich and meaningful and easy with Greg. In his late fifties he's forced against his will to take to glasses, and somehow only doubles in attractiveness. One wry glance over the top of them is still enough to liquify Mycroft's innards and send his pulse jumping, even after all these years. His husband knows it; he uses it often.

They retire to the country as soon as they can, to a cottage with a view of rolling green where every Christmas fills the house to the brim with family. 

Greg cooks, even now. He won't hear a word otherwise. 

A little girl with chubby bare legs howls with joy as he jogs her up and down on one knee. He's still wearing his kiss-the-chef apron, mistletoe hanging from the kitchen doorway, wrapping paper strewn across the lounge. He turns to grin up at Mycroft, just as wonderful as he was thirty years ago.

The little girl on Greg's knee twists her head, to see what's made him so happy. 

On sight of Mycroft in the door, she cries out in delight. She throws both her hands out towards him. _ "Granpie!" _

Mycroft's heart heaves at its seams. He reaches out to pick her up from Greg's knee, gathering her safe against his chest. _ Little one... so like your mother. _ As her tiny arms hold tight around his neck, he glances down into his husband's eyes.

They shine up at him with love and pride—that tiny slanted smile he adores; the man who turned mere existence into life.

"Thanks..." comes the murmur—and with a blink, Mycroft finds himself standing in the street, two o'clock in the morning with a lighter in his hand, watching Lestrade lean close to catch the flame. 

For several seconds he can only stare, reeling in silence as he tries to understand what just happened; what sort of giddy, lurid fantasy his brain just chose to blast him with. He isn't usually prone to imagination. He doesn't keep space in his mind for the unlikely and the improbable, and he had no intention of starting tonight.

He watches Lestrade lean back, blowing smoke into the night air—and with a rush, Mycroft realises it wasn't unlikely or improbable. It wasn't fantasy. It wasn't an error, a malfunction of his sleep-deprived system. 

It was a perfectly-executed function.

He just made a calculation: the probable projected outcome of a decision.

His chest seems to shrink tight around its contents. He watches, his heart cramming itself into his throat as Lestrade's gaze flickers with uncertainty over his face—dark and guarded eyes, wondering what he's suddenly staring at. 

_ But... to claim you that way—to take you—your entire life— _

Mycroft feels heat suddenly burn across the back of his neck.

_ Of all the people in the world—for you to be mine— _

_ God almighty, how could I ever presume to— _

"You alright?" Lestrade asks him with concern, one eyebrow lifting.

Mycroft opens his mouth. 

No sound comes out.

He drops the lighter into his pocket, painfully aware of his fingers shaking.

Without another word, he turns and walks away.


	2. Troubled

"I've grown concerned about Mycroft," he says, with a carefully furrowed frown. 

There was a time Greg's jaw might have dropped to hear those words emerge from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't even that long ago. 

But all they cause is an unsettling, heavy sort of understanding—a sinking sensation, as he realises he knew this was coming and tried to ignore it. Now it's been voiced, and it's real. 

He doesn't say anything in response, lowering his gaze to the Baker Street carpet. 

He listens, his expression clean, as Sherlock goes on.

"He seems to have suffered some manner of emotional shock," Mycroft's brother says, cautiously. "I'd estimate around two months ago, based on the change in his behaviour... he seems very troubled and distracted. I understand he's not been seen at his usual club in seven weeks now."

_ Christ.  _ Greg reaches, unspeaking, for the mug of builder's tea John made him as he arrived.

"His assistant was reluctant to discuss his mental state with me when I tracked her down to her residence in Pimlico," Sherlock says, "though John and I are both in agreement that she seemed... uncharacteristically nervous. Emotional. Defensive in a way I haven't noted in her before. I suspect she's also observed the change in my brother, but finds herself helpless to intervene. Clearly some eventuality or incident must have caused this shift—something of some magnitude, based on Mycroft's usual stability..."

Greg can feel Sherlock starting to gather somewhere, approaching something with the greatest of care. He can feel the air in the room quietly tightening and pulling close around him, John beside him on the sofa not making notes, just listening, watching. Though he can feel hot tea in his mouth, sliding down his throat, he can't really taste it. 

"You might recall the conclusion of the Warrington case two months ago..." Sherlock says. Greg tries his best not to shift, tries to stay looking like this doesn't mean anything to him. "Mycroft arrived on the scene to scold John and I, shortly before two o'clock, but seemed to leave very quickly without speaking to us. I've investigated every other unusual incident of note around that time. None have proved illuminating. John... recalls seeing the two of you share a cigarette."

Greg inhales, slowly.

"Can you shed any light on what has disturbed my brother?" Sherlock asks—and Greg realises there's no use in lying. This has felt like a strange and guilty secret for two long months now. He doesn't understand what happened, but he knows something  _ did _ happen. He knows it was to do with him. He's carried it with him since, trying not to look at it, hoping it'll come to nothing.

He takes a moment to settle himself, then responds like he always wants witnesses to speak to him: simply, clearly; everything they remember, nothing left out.

"Bit of banter," he murmurs, and feels Sherlock slide soundlessly into analysis. "Nothing unusual. Told him I don't normally see him in daylight these days. He said the sight of me's started giving him a headache... I said the sight of him makes me want a cigarette." 

He drinks a mouthful of tea, buying time to think with the few seconds it takes to swallow.

"He lit one for me—seemed perfectly fine—then I glanced up, and suddenly he was staring at me like he'd seen a ghost. Mouth open. Just... pale. Upset, maybe. If that's something he ever feels. Before I could say another word, he turned and walked off. And that was that."

Sherlock remains silent for some time, barely moving as he processes this sequence of events.

"I don't know what I said," Greg adds in a mumble, weak, and finds himself glancing at John for support. "I don't know what I did. I've thought about it a thousand times, trying to think of something, but... Christ, I wish I knew. I don't understand. Honestly, it's been keeping me awake. I've never seen anybody look at me like that in my life."

Sherlock's chin tenses. He keeps something in his mouth for a second, shaping it, testing it. 

"Mycroft must have seen something," he says at last.

Greg's heart gives a strange shift; he doesn't like it. "'Seen something'?" he checks. "What d'you mean? There was nothing to see."

"Nothing to you," Sherlock murmurs. He inhales slowly, placing his fingertips on his temples. "To Mycroft, there is always something to see."

"You mean... a deduction? Like you do?"

Sherlock's mouth pulls. "Somewhat," he says. "My brother's ability to analyse a set of facts and through logical inferences arrive at a conclusion is similar to mine... but it has been shaped by his chosen career." 

He sits back in his chair, thinking. His eyes search the ceiling for answers as he explains.

"Mycroft makes his living by taking apparently unpredictable situations—ones with more variables than the average mind could even begin to process—and processing them. World governments rely on him to calculate with accuracy the likely consequences of their decisions, years or even decades into the future. My mind prefers to work backwards, recovering those chains of events which led to the present moment. My brother's mind works  _ forwards, _ suggesting where current chains—if left unaltered—will lead... in a handful of seeds, Mycroft surveys the forest."

Greg can hardly breathe, suddenly unsure he wants to know where this is going. 

"So, you... you think Mycroft... what, made a  _ prediction _ about me?" he says. "Something that bothered him?"

Sherlock's eyes snap out of his thoughts, flashing into Greg's. 

"Let go of any conviction this is fortune-telling, Lestrade," he says. "My brother's mind is a machine—a machine which takes data and computes. If Mycroft has come to a conclusion about the outcome of a decision, he will not be incorrect."

A million things fly through Greg's head at once, his pulse skittering wildly. 

"Did he—I-I mean—" His throat grips. He has to say it. "Christ, Sherlock—am I going to die or something? Should I be fucking worried?"

"No," Sherlock says at once, and the conviction in his voice seems to restart Greg's heart. He forces himself to breathe. "If Mycroft had foreseen some kind of danger or misfortune for you, Lestrade, he'd have warned you. He'd have suggested steps that could be taken in order to avert it. My brother always seem to have held you in great respect... I believe that he'd act in your best interests."

"But—but then what  _ did _ he see, Sherlock? What the hell are you telling me?"

"I do not know. Whatever it was, it's led him to isolate himself from us all."

_ "Why? _ What's Mycroft got to do with  _ me?" _

_ "I do not know, _ Lestrade. I haven't all the data. I can't supply you with an explanation until I'm supplied with the data—but, now we've established that  _ you _ lie at the heart of my brother's disturbance, I believe I know how to acquire the missing answers we need."


	3. Deprived

It takes Greg nearly an hour to convince her. 

As she drives him along the winding country lane to Mycroft's house, the headlamps kept low, her hands start to shake on the wheel.

"This could cost me my position," she mumbles, keying him through the massive outer security gates. The passcode seems to go on forever. "I can't believe I'm countenancing this..."

Gazing up at the imposing manor house beyond the gates, Greg's stomach seems to pull itself quietly out of shape. Hardly any lights are on—one on the ground floor, one on the top. 

Mycroft's living in two rooms.

"You know he's not right," he murmurs. Mycroft's PA shudders beside him, then gestures to stand back as the mechanical gates grind open. "Whatever's unbalanced him, I caused it... if we're lucky, that means I can fix it."

"But he doesn't apply his analytical skills to his personal life," she says, pulling her coat tight around her body. "He _ stringently _ avoids it. He says it's emotionally unwise in every instance."

Greg huffs. "I'd say it looks like he was dead right about that... don't you?"

Anthea's mouth flattens. As she glances nervously along the lane, the wind lifts the ends of her hair. 

"I'll wait for you in the car," she says, "and—please—if you think you're compromising him any further, please leave at once. I can't tell you the pressures we're already facing. Mr Holmes has struggled to perform the basic functions of his role for two months now. If this continues, the country will suffer."

_ Christ. _

"I'm hearing 'things can only get better'," Greg says, steps past her, and heads between the gates. "Pray for me."

*

He promised Anthea he'd ring the doorbell—stand on the porch in full view of the camera, let Mycroft choose whether to let him in.

He promised Sherlock he'd make good use of the copied key.

As Greg lets himself into the silent and empty hallway, the darkness stirs around him. This house is old. It's not accustomed to visitors, and it's not sure whether it likes the look of him or not. He closes the door behind him, and checks first the illuminated room on the ground floor—a kitchen, hardly used, with an open side door to a private wine cellar.

Carefully he makes his way up the stairs, trying not to breathe too loud in the silence.

On the very top floor of the house, the gloomy corridor ahead frames a single lamplit doorway. It's half-open; no sound comes from within. For a moment Greg finds himself afraid, hoping to god he's not about to see something he'll never forget—then reminds himself he's not come here to be afraid. He's come for answers. If there's something awful to see beyond that door, someone needs to see it. It might as well be him.

He approaches the doorway slowly, letting his footsteps be heard upon the creaking wooden board.

The room beyond the door is a bedroom. Greg's nervous gaze skips over an unmade oak four-poster, claw-footed wardrobes which could be centuries old, then finally flickers to the window-seat where a figure sits, looking out across the featureless night.

It's Mycroft—at least, some semblance of the man he used to be. His hair's dishevelled and unwashed and he's barely half-dressed, pyjama bottoms, no socks, a crumpled white dress-shirt left open to the sternum. In one hand, he holds a near-empty glass of wine by the rim.

Still gazing through the window, and sounding tired to the soul, he asks,

"Did you recall Mummy's birthday?" He lifts the glass to his mouth, drinking. The shake in his hand cuts Greg's pulse. "I had my assistant send flowers from both of us... violets... perhaps you could find time to teleph—"

Mycroft glances around.

The look that crosses his face will never fade in Greg's mind. 

It's a look of desolation—a plea to every force in the universe to say this isn't really happening. Exhaustion aches through his eyes.

"Lestrade," he manages, and for some reason it brings him to the edge of alcoholic tears. He grips his glass, trying to haul back a surge of emotion. He's too tired, too drunk to realise he's too weak to hide it. "Forgive me, I—unaccustomed to visitors—w-why are you—"

His heart hammering, Greg steps further into the room. He doesn't know why the sight of Mycroft like this makes his chest feel as if it's caving in. He's known Mycroft for years now, only a couple of days less than Sherlock, but a little cheeky flirting at a crime scene is as far as he's ever dared to push it. The truth is that Mycroft's always seemed like the human equivalent of a star—bright and kinda magical, pretty to admire from below, but so far beyond his reach that it's just not reality to contemplate it.

This isn't going to be a conversation with an easy route in, Greg realises. There's no gentle lead here, no small talk he can use to soften this.

He comes as close to the window as he dares, wishing it all away.

"Sherlock's worried about you," he says, and watches with distress as Mycroft's eyes gloss and flick away. He drinks, shaking, unable to keep looking at Greg. "We all are, mate. You've not been right for a couple of months. And we... Sherlock, and me and John... we wondered if..."

_ Christ, how the hell do I say this? _

"Erm—Sherlock told me you can predict things. He says you see stuff. Stuff that's likely to happen." Greg swallows, holding his nerve. "And he... he thinks you might've maybe seen something that night in Croydon. When you and me were smoking."

Mycroft says nothing, holding onto his wine glass as if it's keeping him alive. 

Too afraid to stop, Greg pushes on. 

"What did you see, mate?" he asks. "What's messed you up this badly?"

Mycroft's fingers curl around his glass, saying nothing. 

"S'it about me?" Greg says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. He feels his pulse skip as Mycroft gives a soundless, weary nod. "Something that's gonna happen to me?"

Mycroft's eyes slide shut. Exhaustion pulls the words from his mouth; he seems too tired now to keep them in. 

"A fate I wouldn't wish upon anyone, Lestrade... least of all a man like you."

Greg feels his shoulders lock silently into place. Sherlock was wrong, then—it's something awful. There's no help maybe, no way to change it. He's doomed somehow and it's going to hurt. He stares at Mycroft, fear and distress tightening up his muscles as he tries to force his mind to calm, and before panic can kick in, he decides that if it's bad he'd rather know. He can make plans. He can use whatever time is left.

"What is it?" he asks. He clenches his fists, forcing himself to speak. "What's coming for me? Tell me straight. I want to know."

"Nothing," Mycroft murmurs, holding his glass to his chest. He draws a long, loosening breath. "Nothing, now. At least, nothing I have the power to predict. You'll live extremely happily, I hope, making whatever choices you wish... and perhaps they'll lead to wonderful things..." He hesitates, lifting the glass. "Free of the yoke of my decision," he adds, and drinks.

Greg inhales. His throat feels like it's trying to seal itself shut. 

_ "Your _ decision?" he says.

"Mm," Mycroft hums, still drinking.

Greg's brain scrambles to keep up. "You saw an outcome of something... _ you _did? Something to do with me?"

"Something I contemplated doing."

"Right... what outcome?"

Mycroft huffs, drinking again. "Something you truly don't deserve."

Greg tries to push his thoughts towards solutions; he can only think of one. He's not sure if he dares to ask. "Were you, erm... were you plotting to kill me or something?"

It makes Mycroft huff, bitterly amused. 

"Not quite," he remarks. "Merely your freedom of choice."

_ Christ... what the...? _

Greg draws a breath. 

"Okay—listen," he says, "with the greatest of respect—can you please bear in mind that I'm an ordinary idiot, born with an ordinary brain? I know you and Sherlock exist on another plane of being to us mortals, and I know that's probably easy to forget, but... if this is to do with me, Mr Holmes, and whatever you saw has messed you up this badly... I think I've got a right to hear it. You're telling me you nearly did something to ruin my life. Now it's got you shutting off, scaring everyone who knows you." 

He shrugs, trying to project disinterest, even as his heart pounds at twice its normal speed.

"And you're not gonna confide in anybody else, are you?" he asks. "So why not tell me? If it's all fine now, like you say, and I'm gonna be alright... go ahead and tell me what you saved me from. Gimme the chance to be grateful."

Mycroft shakes his head, as if Greg can't possibly contemplate what he's asking. He takes a long drink, swirls the last of his wine around the glass, and visibly swipes his teeth with his tongue. 

No answer comes.

Undeterred, Greg folds his arms across his chest. "What was the decision, at least?"

"To ask you something," Mycroft replies, and reaches for the bottle of wine beside him in the window-seat. 

"And... the answer would've ruined my life, would it? A single question?"

"The answer would have set in motion a sequence of events. A sequence whose inevitable path I saw in detail. A path I don't have any right to impose on you."

"Whoa, wait—you got the entire path of my life from _ one question? _ What the hell was it?"

"The details of the outcome were vivid," Mycroft snaps, refilling his glass from the bottle. Greg watches the level climb higher and higher. "It suggests that my mind had great confidence in its conclusions. It was a highly probable outcome."

"Right," Greg says, now on the verge of a headache, "okay..." and supposing they'll be here from some time, he moves across to the bed. He sits down on the edge of it. "How would answering a single question have made me miserable for the rest of my life?"

"You wouldn't have been miserable," Mycroft mutters, unsettled by the sight of him on the bed. He turns his face away, gathering the glass against his chin. "You'd have been... ignorantly happy. Unaware. Blind to my incorrigible selfishness."

_ "Selfishness? _ What're you—Jesus, Mycroft, what the hell was this question?"

Mycroft winces at 'Mycroft'. He starts drinking again without response, pulling his knees up to his chest. Greg hadn't ever noticed the resemblance to Sherlock until this moment. Now he's seen it, he's not sure he'll ever forget it.

"What was the _ outcome, _ then?" he says, weary. "I'd be... 'ignorantly happy'. What's that mean? Were you planning on lying to me about something?"

"You'd have lived your life in ignorance of what I cost you. If you were happy, it's only because I deprived you of all other options."

_ What the fuck? _"Were you... going to offer me a job or something?"

Mycroft doesn't respond, drinking again and glaring at the window.

"Would you have been _ trying _ to make me unhappy?" Greg demands, and Mycroft's face tightens. His hand shakes as he lifts the glass.

"No," he says. "No, I... the opposite. I'd have tried to—to the best of my ability—and while I'm sure that if asked, you'd have said you were content with—..." 

His expression shutters, closing off. 

"This is beside the point," he snaps.

"Really?" Greg says, with a scowl. "It seems pretty bloody relevant to me."

"What is _ relevant," _ Mycroft says, "is that you are unaware of the situation, and of what I would have inflicted upon you—and you seem to have no appreciation whatsoever that I'm trying to do what is _ best for you, _ in spite of my own personal—"

"Then make me aware!" Greg half-shouts, one more evasive answer away from losing his mind. "Christ, if you're so bloody certain you've done the right thing, then how about you run it by me? I get a say in this, don't I? My own damned _ life?" _

Mycroft's face contorts. 

He throws back the last of his wine, slams down the glass, and barks,

"Would you like to retire to the South Downs together and share a grandchild, Lestrade?"

For a moment, Greg's close to certain he didn't hear right. 

"What?" he says. His heart clenches. "What are you—_ no? _ No, I—I don't want—"

"There, then," Mycroft snaps, flushing. He grabs for his bottle of wine. "There," he says again, shaking as he tugs out the cork. "There's your say—and to absolutely nobody's surprise I was completely correct. My decision is vindicated. I did the right bloody thing after all. Now please, get out of my house, and leave me to—"

"But—wait, what the _ fuck?" _ Greg's ears are ringing. It doesn't make sense. "You were gonna ask if I—if I wanted to have kids with—?"

"I was going to ask you to dinner," Mycroft says, furiously, and doesn't bother with the glass. He drinks straight from the bottle, shaking, and dries his mouth on the back of his wrist. "You'd have accepted. We'd have found ourselves greatly compatible. With time and with patience I'd have earned your trust and induced you to love me in return. We'd then have every probability of a strong and successful marriage, a lengthy retirement and a family—and if you think I'd be so obnoxiously and egregiously _ selfish _ as to impose that upon you, while knowing full well that you deserve far better than an emotionally-castrated wreck such as—"

Greg's legs lift him up from the bed. 

He can't see a thing. He can't think.

"Lestrade," Mycroft barks, a thousand miles away, as Greg's feet move him on their own. They walk without a sound towards the door. His heart doesn't seem to be beating; Mycroft's voice sounds as distant as a memory. "Lestrade—for god's sake, _ I averted it _—it's no longer a possibility—"

Greg moves along the corridor like a ghost, down the stairs in utter silence, and through instinct alone finds his way to the door. Whether he locks it behind him or not, he won't ever remember. 

The gravel drive seems to make no sound beneath his feet.

As he shuts the passenger door, Anthea stares at him over the top of her phone. 

She starts to speak. "What did he—"

"Drive," Greg croaks.

Without another word, she moves her phone into the glovebox and twists the key in the ignition.

Their departure is watched from the topmost window of the distant house by a figure who sits alone in silhouette, his head held low in both hands.


	4. Exposed

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ What have you done to Lestrade? _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ He looks like he has been lobotomised. He barely spoke. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ He and John have now been in the pub for two hours and I've been told I am not allowed to be present. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ Reply to me! _

_ Tell Inspector Lestrade to answer my calls. I need to speak with him. M. _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:17 _

_ I fear I miscommunicated yesterday evening and I want to correct misimpressions he may have formed. M. _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:18 _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ As John is not answering my texts and I am forbidden to enter The Carpenters Arms under any circumstances I have no way to relay this message. What have you done to Lestrade? _

_ Nothing. For gods sake. M.  _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:22 _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ Then why does he quite clearly wish to be dead? _

_ If you think I am having this discussion with you of all people then you are laughably mistaken. M. _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:24 _

_ Tell Lestrade to answer my calls. It's vital that I speak with him. M. _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:25 _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ Tell John to answer my texts and I will tell him to tell Lestrade to answer your calls. _

_ You are an idiot and a child and I despair to think that we share so much as a grain of genetic material. M.  _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:26 _

_ Ring our mother for her birthday. _ _   
_ _ Sent 20:26 _

*

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ Given that you have obviously caused some sort of mutual mental breakdown, it would be irresponsible of me to share with you that Lestrade has taken a week's emergency annual leave to clear his head. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ And whether he has used that week to travel alone to Branscombe beach in East Devon or not, I cannot confirm. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ What I CAN confirm is that you have somehow distressed him greatly. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ But then you yourself have clearly been suffering some or other emotional disturbance lately too. From this I draw the conclusion that there is a lack of clarity between you and Lestrade. Or some manner of disagreement.  _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ Or quite possibly that you have just been an arsehole. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ I imagine if you spent a few days preparing what you wish to say to him, and then approached him with respect and humility, you might find in each other some sort of much needed clarity. _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ You are not to tell John I disclosed any of this to you. _

_ Thank you. _ _   
_ _ Sent 02:01 _

_ NEW MESSAGE FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES _ _   
_ _ I haven't given you any reason to thank me. _

*

It's the tiniest little chalet—half the size of his flat back in London, right there at the edge of the beach with nothing but the ocean to see. Something about its smallness has been incredibly comforting this week. 

It feels safe like this, somehow. 

It's made it easier.

Greg's spent most of his time out walking his thoughts, or sitting in an evening on the beach, quietly alone with the sea. When he's wanted company, he's taken his laptop to bed and watched old films he's seen a hundred times before. He came here three years ago, when he found out about the affair. At the time, he'd been certain that nothing in the world could ever persuade him to come back here again. 

His final night in the chalet finds him cross-legged on the pebbles as the sun goes down over the water, lacing pink and cream and lilac through the sky. He brought a bottle of wine out with him, intending to finish it off before heading home tomorrow, but he hasn't really touched it so far. He doesn't feel like drinking—not tonight.

As he stirs his fingers through the pebbles, thinking dimly of taking some home, he becomes aware of footsteps on their way along the beach.

He thinks little of it. There've been a few older couples around this week, taking the chance for a quiet holiday while the schools are still in term. They've mostly left Greg to himself. He's well-aware they probably think he's a recluse, or some sad bastard working on a novel. The couple next door borrowed a couple of teabags and a drop of milk on their first night here, but otherwise no-one's had much to say.

It means that as the footsteps come closer, and he senses the careful slowing of an approach, Greg lifts his eyes from the pebbles with curiosity.

He's seen the nerves in Mycroft's face before he even recognises Mycroft. 

It feels like everything in his body stops moving—stops functioning. It's like being run down and left for dead. He hates it, but all at once he understands the look Mycroft gave him from the window-seat; that aching glance of,  _ oh god. You.  _ Mycroft's come as casually dressed as he probably ever manages, knitted argyle tank-top and a nervous pair of corduroys. It's a transparent attempt at reassurance. It makes him look vulnerable and younger, and Greg wonders at once when it was that Mycroft got here—if he's actually been watching with care for a couple of days. That wind-dried hair clearly wasn't in London this morning. It's got a touch of curl to it. The ocean air has done its best to help Mycroft out, make him look just a little more human.

Greg gathers his fingers quietly around a few pebbles, holding them for strength as Mycroft comes within speaking distance.

He visibly waits a moment to let Greg speak first, if he wishes—then, seeing Greg's unimpressed silence, he swallows and begins.

"I hoped we could talk," he says. The sound of his voice hurts; Greg doesn't really know why. "I appreciate that I acted very poorly when last we met. I was in very low spirits, and I'd been drinking, and I regret very much that things transpired the way they did. I can't imagine how unsettling it was for you to hear. I'd like to reassure you that I don't intend to interfere in your life in any way, for any reason—a-and I am truly, deeply sorry."

Greg feels his throat muscles grip. He almost doesn't want to speak. He doesn't really want to share the things he's thought for six long days. They're his, and they're safe in his mouth, and he doesn't know if they'll be safe outside of it. He doesn't know if he can entrust them to Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft looks so sincere, though. 

He looks, for once in his life, like he genuinely wants to listen.

_ Suppose I thought I'd never see you again anyway,  _ Greg thinks, gazing up at him. _ Doesn't matter if I now guarantee it.  _

He looks away, feeling better with his eyes on the sea, and grips the pebbles gathered in his palm. 

"You know I just got out of a divorce?" he says. His voice breaks; he grips the pebbles harder, waiting until his throat has relaxed again to speak. "It's been hard. It's been  _ really _ fucking hard. And I don't know if I'll ever want to even live with someone again—l-let alone—"

Mycroft starts to speak. "Lestrade, I—I appreciate that you have no interest whatsoever in—"

"No—just— _ no, _ alright? Shut up." Greg lets the pebbles drop from his hands, putting his palms across his face instead. He can't bear it. "Shut the fuck up, and let me talk, or leave."

Mycroft doesn't say another word. As he struggles to speak, Greg can feel him there, aching in silence right beside him.

"She always said she wanted kids," he bites out, shaking. "Then she didn't. Said there'd never be anybody else, then there was. Said we'd be there for each other, and grow old together, then decided that screwing my mate would be more fun. And there were problems from the start,  _ big _ problems, and I'm glad it all came out, and I'm glad I walked away—and I wouldn't go back—but—Christ, you don't understand what scars that leaves. What I _ lost. _ All the future I thought I could count on. Someone calling me dad. Happy Christmasses. Somebody being there with me, no matter what. You don't understand what it's like to let go of that, and watch it leave, knowing it probably won't ever come back to you. You don't have a single fucking clue."

No disagreement comes—only the gentle, watching silence. 

"You said you saw it all," Greg manages, shaking. "Said it was inevitable. Like we'll go out once for dinner, then happily ever after—but— _ seriously, _ Mycroft?"

He takes his hands from his face, staring into Mycroft's eyes.

"There's nothing fucking inevitable about anything," he says, watching the man grow younger and younger by the second. "I watched someone  _ promise god _ she'd stay there with me. I had a ring. It meant  _ nothing.  _ And you think you can just look at me, and promise me we'd be happy for good?"

Mycroft visibly pales, his fingers tightening into his palms. "L-Lestrade—I—"

"You took a lot of things into account, did you?" Greg snaps. "A lot of variables?"

Mycroft nods without a word.

"You know there's only one that matters?" Greg says, searching his face. "If it's there, it's there, and the rest means jack-shit. And you can just make your peace with it." 

He watches Mycroft struggle to understand him, lost.

_ "Whether I want to,"  _ he says, fiercely. "I don't give two shits what your magic bloody mindpowers say is going to happen. If I ever go for dinner with you, it's because I want to. If we end up being something together, it's because I want to. And if you're ever standing next to me, thinking I'm only there because you saw the future and somehow tricked me into playing it out—then you can go right ahead and haul yourself out of your own arsehole. I'll be standing there  _ because I want to. _ Are we clear?"

Mycroft nods, mute and overwhelmed. He looks like he's on the verge of tears.

Greg turns his gaze back out towards the ocean, feeling his hands tremor as he puts them together.

"I've not been with a bloke for twenty years," he says. His voice cracks; he shuts his eyes to stop them stinging. "I just spent eighteen months getting hauled across the coals by divorce lawyers. I don't know if I'm ever going to trust somebody again. And I know you're a bloody Holmes, and you're always bloody right, I just... I-I don't know what that's..."

He shakes his head, suddenly aware that he's exhausted. 

"Sure, I'd've gone to dinner with you," he mumbles. "Always kinda liked you. Always wanted to get to know you. But the rest?" 

He pushes his hands up over his face.

"Christ, Mycroft," he mutters, raking them back through his hair. "Buy me a drink first."

It's a long time before Mycroft speaks. He barely even moves for almost a minute, struggling and processing, taking it all onboard. 

When he nervously takes a step nearer, Greg doesn't stop him.

He steps onto the pebble beach without a sound, then comes to kneel on the ground at Greg's side. He'd never imagined Mycroft Holmes sitting on the surface of the earth before, but here he is, looking so sorry it's almost painful to see.

"I've... a-admired you for some time," he says. Greg looks down at the pebbles again, trying not to let it scare him—trying to let it feel okay. "Rather fervently, I'm afraid. I never believed for a moment it could be returned on any scale. I was alarmed by the possibility that in fact it could be—a-and that, with care—one day—"

Mycroft swallows.

"I've never known someone like you," he says, gazing at Greg, "but I can't turn myself away from the fact that you deserve far better. I believe that if I'm predisposed to love you, my first and only duty should be to honour that fact. It... hurt very much, to realise it. To face it. To come in some way close, and then have to withdraw. I'm very sorry I exposed you to my pain. It wasn't yours to bear."

Greg feels the corner of his mouth pull. He takes a moment just to try and listen, to believe for now that Mycroft's being genuine—that he's allowed to have these words he's being given. They won't be taken back off him at some point, torn from his soul and handed over to someone else.

He glances up, uneasy, and finds nothing but care and concern coming back at him. 

It hurts.

He feels it rise onto his face. 

"If you actually saw something Mycroft... and you trust it—and you think you've got a chance to make me feel like I want to share my life with someone again?

His eyes narrow, trying to make Mycroft see. 

"There wouldn't  _ be _ somebody better," he says. "Do you understand? The person who could do that would put the colour back in my world. I wouldn't give a fuck about anyone else on this planet. Not ever again." 

He searches Mycroft's face, begging him to listen. 

"Love's not about ranking humanity in order," he says, "then snagging the best you can get. It's about connection. It's about growing something. Something just the two of you can grow. Growing it together."

For a few moments of silence, he simply watches Mycroft learn. The glassy, pinkened distress in his gaze seems to ease; quiet resolve settles pain into calm. 

It looks like he's decided something.

Greg glances down at Mycroft's mouth, feeling his heart pull.

"What's your magic psychic crap telling you now?" he asks—and Mycroft's pained flash of humour is so good to see that he almost smiles. "What happens next, Mystic Meg? Are we still on for getting hitched in Vegas? Whatever other bollocks you think you saw."

Mycroft has the grace to look embarrassed; relief, amusement and guilt fight for control of his face. 

"I haven't the faintest idea," he admits. He pulls his knees up to his chest. "Lately I've been struggling to assess even the simplest scenarios for probable outcomes. My work has rather suffered for it. When I try, I feel... disconnected and unstable. Very hesitant. Uninformed."

Greg snorts. "A Holmes, developing a sense of humility? No wonder you've crashed right off the rails."

Mycroft flushes, quietly distressed, but takes the hit without complaint. 

"Usually I try very hard to compartmentalise my analytical skills from my private life," he says. "In this instance, the deduction was involuntary..."

"Why keep it separate?" Greg asks, reaching at last for the bottle of wine. It seems they've agreed upon something worth drinking to. "Do you end up deducing things you don't wanna know?"

There's an awkward pause—then Mycroft says, "Yes."

Something in that quiet, single word turns Greg's head. He reads Mycroft's face, all the pain written there. 

"What sort of stuff?" he asks.

Mycroft doesn't meet his eyes. He takes the offered wine bottle with a murmur of thanks, waiting a moment to speak. 

"It can be difficult to establish relationships," he says at last, "when the reservations people have about you are always within easy reach. I've had painful experiences, realising my investment in others would remain unreturned."

_ God.  _ Greg doesn't really know what to say.

"That must suck," he tries at last. He watches Mycroft work the cork free from the bottle, feeling genuinely sorry for him. "Must make things hard."

Mycroft makes a stiff sound in the back of his throat. 

"The perils of prediction," he supposes.  _ "'The mind has mountains; cliffs of fall'..." _ He takes a noiseless drink. "In a way, it saved me time. Parting would have come to pass eventually. All my foreknowledge did was speed the normal process."

He passes the bottle to Greg.

"My relationships became transactional some time ago," he says, as if it doesn't hurt—as if it's nothing really. "Then I stopped bothering entirely. There was little... organic warmth or closeness, by the end. Physical arrangements. An exchange of relief."

_ Christ. _

"I learned not to anticipate intimacy," Mycroft goes on, dimly, "as a way of suffering no disappointment when it didn't arise. Then realised all too late that organic warmth and intimacy are rather the point of human bonds... without them, it all becomes very joyless."

Greg smiles weakly, drinking. 

"Do you ever worry you're too old and cynical for intimacy?" he asks. 

"Mm. Quite often."

"Feels like... I don't know, you see too much of the world. What people will do to each other, given half the chance. Gets harder to drum up all that hope from when you were young."

Mycroft huffs, visibly trying not to smile. "Bold of you to assume I had much hope when I was young."

For the first time in over a week, Greg laughs. 

They drink on the beach until it's too cold to stay out, then head into the chalet and drink tea until they're warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fifth and final chapter will be posted this Friday (August 23rd).


	5. Held

The month which passes is quiet and healing. Mycroft's work requires some careful corrective attention, with a managed recovery of his skills, and he's grateful for the focus. It keeps his mental faculties occupied. Each week precedes another week just like it, and they pass themselves very comfortably, diary pages turning with neither undue effort nor incidence. 

He hears discreetly from Sherlock that a quiet, healing month is in progress for someone else, too. There seems to be a purposeful push towards normality, Sherlock says; things are being allowed to settle.

Mycroft keeps his mind on his work, keeps himself busy, and honours the settling.

If something is to come, it will come. The details of if and when are not for him to know. His analytical skills seem destabilised in some way, far less confident, no longer galvanised by what he now recognises was never-once-challenged arrogance. Even if they were functioning at full strength, he wouldn't dare to apply them to this situation—and even if he had the gall to attempt it, he categorically wouldn't trust his own convictions. 

When it comes to the machinations of the human heart, he concludes, there are quite simply too many variables.

And for now, the one variable which truly matters is situated—quite rightly—out of his reach.

*

It's almost a relief to notice Sherlock returning to his hobby of meddling with local crime scenes. It seems as if he's judged that the pair of them are now recovered enough to handle any fall-out from his actions—and while it's a warped sort of compliment to receive, Mycroft feels inclined to take it.

Working one evening on a report for the treasury, his phone begins to ring.

It's Anthea—a little nervous with him still, a little careful. She offers to take care of the situation before she's even explained it. Sherlock has been apprehended attempting to interfere with a crime scene in Greenwich while disguised as a member of the forensics team. Anthea adds that authorities at Scotland Yard have been informed, and are on their way.

Mycroft understands, without needing to hear a name, who she means.

For a moment, he's standing beside a beach chalet in Devon late at night, feeling quiet arms wrap around him, hugging him—patting once or twice between his shoulders.  _ "Don't be a stranger,"  _ the voice says in his ear. Lestrade's arms let him go.  _ "Don't keep yourself away, alright? There's no need." _

Mycroft wonders, quietly, if a month is enough. 

He wants to seem respectful. He doesn't want to appear as if he's come for something—then, he thinks, sending Anthea in his stead would give an entirely different message, one he certainly doesn't feel. 

He tells her, with a note of reassurance in his voice, that he's confident he can take care of this incident in person.

"Of course, sir," she says. "I'll dispatch your car."

*

"Boss?" comes a call beyond the barrier. 

Cigarette halfway to his lighter, Greg turns around to see.

A black Mercedes with government plates has arrived on the scene. It's waiting just beyond the fluttering stripes of yellow tape, and the uniformed driver has gotten out to speak to Greg's uniformed officers—requesting access, not just taking it.

It makes Greg smile.

He excuses himself to the head of forensics, thanks her for her time, and heads over to the barrier as he pockets his lighter, his coat swishing after him in the breeze. 

Almost there, he sees the door to the backseat click open. The driver neatly steps back to hold it; his passenger gets out, dressed to perfection in a silver-lilac tie and deep grey suit. 

On sight of Greg's smile, the look of slight hesitation eases. 

By the time Greg dips beneath the tape to join him, Mycroft's smiling too.

"Here comes your headache," Greg quips, and it turns the smile into something almost like an embarrassed grin. Mycroft masks it pretty quickly, but Greg knows what he saw—and he knows he liked it. "So, good news and bad news. Bad news is that it's Darlington's crime scene, and she doesn't really appreciate her authority being undermined. Good news is she's feeling lenient. She'll let Sherlock go after a night in the cells to think about what he's done. As his designated grown-ups, how are we feeling about this offer?"

"That seems incredibly generous of her, given the circumstances," Mycroft says. "And I'm certain it's far more than my brother deserves. I hope it hasn't caused you any professional friction?"

"Nah," Greg says, "it'll be fine. I can't promise she won't pelt him with rotten fruit between the bars, but who knows? It might even do him some good."

Mycroft's eyes warm with hesitant amusement; Greg watches, pleased.

"Humility is often of surprising benefit to a Holmes," Mycroft remarks. "I'd like to say it makes us rather more pleasant to deal with."

"I think I might agree with you there..." Greg retrieves his cigarettes and lighter from his coat, opening up the tin. "Still smoking?"

"Ah... on occasion, yes."

"On this occasion?" Greg checks, placing a cigarette between his lips. 

Mycroft resists for half a moment, eyeing the tin with poorly suppressed interest—then surrenders, giving a nod. 

Greg hands one over, puts the rest away, then cups his hands around his lighter.

"C'mere," he says around his own cigarette, clicking in hope of a spark. He angles his back to shield it as well as he can. "There's a breeze..."

Quietly, Mycroft comes in closer. 

They lean together to the flame, side-by-side against the car. Greg's takes with ease; Mycroft's, stubborn, chars and goes out. Greg raises his hands to help, letting Mycroft hold them steady. 

As Mycroft makes another attempt, frowning at the tiny flame and waiting for something to happen, he glances up at Greg.

Greg holds his gaze, waiting.

He watches something young filter through Mycroft's expression. It softens all the lines around his eyes; it wipes away the tension in his mouth. The cigarette lights at last, but Mycroft doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at Greg.

Greg caps the lighter, smiling, and stays close even as his hands come down.

There's a pause, full of everything. He lets Mycroft gaze at him.

"Why aren't you asking?" he says.

Another five years fall from Mycroft's face. It takes a moment to get a reply.

"I'm unsure if you'd want me to," he says. His throat muscles shift; he draws a nervous breath. "And I have the greatest reluctance to expose you to anything you might not want."

Greg takes this onboard, pulling at the corner of his lip. He takes a first drag on his cigarette.

"Maybe I treat these things too simply..." he says, as Mycroft hangs onto his every word, searching them desperately for signs. "Seems like the best way to find out what someone wants might be to go ahead and ask them."

Mycroft barely moves. He looks almost like a child, gazing at something he's been told he mustn't even think to want, so far beyond his reach he can't conceive of it.

Greg's heart pulls, overwhelmed to be looked at like that. He's not sure he can watch the poor bastard suffer any longer. 

"What d'you want, Mycroft?" he murmurs.

Mycroft visibly balls his courage. 

"I want to ask you to dinner," he whispers.

Greg lowers his gaze, drawing slowly on his cigarette. He blows a plume of smoke into the narrow gap between them, letting it all feel real.  _ You want me,  _ he thinks, washing the words like a balm over wounds long in need of them.  _ Want to spend time with me. Be with me. You thought you couldn't have me, and you grieved. You fell apart. _

He looks back up at Mycroft, rubbing his thumb against his cigarette.

"Take me to dinner, Mycroft," he murmurs.

He feels Mycroft inhale. "When?"

Greg glances over his shoulder at the crime scene, watching the siren of a squad car flare. 

"Now?" he says. "This isn't my circus. They're not my monkeys. And Sherlock won't be causing any trouble 'til tomorrow morning at least..." He looks back into Mycroft's eyes, watching his pupils swell as they meet. "You like French food, don't you?"

Something seems to thicken Mycroft's throat for a second. He exhales, overwhelmed, still gazing into Greg's eyes. 

"Yes," he says. "Very much."

Greg smiles a little. 

"Well, then..." he says, taking a drag, and reaches out to brush a speck from Mycroft's tie. "Good job you're dressed for it. Mind if I come straight from the office?"

"No," Mycroft says, "n-no, not at all. You look perfectly suitable."

"Good to hear. Are we pelting Sherlock with fruit before or after we've eaten?"

"A-After, I think. The night is young."

"Isn't it?" Greg says, drops his cigarette, and puts it out beneath his heel. He brushes against Mycroft's side as he passes, circling the car. "You've swapped to an E-Class then, have you? What happened to your pretty little Audi? I hope you found her a decent home."

*

For weeks and weeks, it's just dinner—just meeting at a restaurant now and then, talking and laughing over wine and good food. Mycroft's fun to be with. He's charming and clever and he's funny, and the more Greg comes to know about him, the more he wants to know. 

Nothing's happening yet. Nothing's official. When they touch, it's small and functional little gestures.

Greg still finds himself revisiting them for hours and days afterwards. 

He catches himself remembering a guiding hand on his back like it was a kiss, hoping it'll happen again next time. 

Soon he's smirking like a teenager whenever Mycroft texts. It's hard to hate himself too much. Mycroft's fun to tease and flirt at; it's getting easier and easier to feel playful in his presence. He's still calling Greg  _ 'Lestrade' _ right into the middle of July, even now they lie awake at night miles apart, texting each other back and forth, staying up just to be together. Each time Mycroft drops him off in the car after dinner, Greg feels a tiny piece of his heart drive away.

They meet nearly every week now.

Halfway through August, there comes an evening Greg can't stop finding excuses to touch—opening doors for Mycroft, pulling in his chair for him, guiding his hand playfully to items on the menu. Each time, Mycroft responds to the touch with welcome. By the time they're eating dessert, and Greg's offering a spoonful of vanilla cheesecake across the table, he realises he's gazing at Mycroft's mouth like he can't see anything else in the world—and he realises he wants to kiss. He wants to feel gentle hands, pulling away his clothes. 

He wants to wake up tomorrow morning with a warm and animal ache inside his bones, and he wants Mycroft to be the one who put it there.

They smoke together outside as they wait for Mycroft's car, their sides touching, sharing a single silhouette upon the pavement.

"Feel weirdly awake tonight," Greg remarks, as they finally drive away from the restaurant. "I don't know what it is. Maybe I shouldn't have had that espresso."

There's a gentle pause from the darkness beside him—the sound of a risk being calculated. 

"Would you want to come in for a night cap?" Mycroft says. "I have a twenty-six-year-old Bowmore somewhere... Vintner's Trilogy. Excellent accompaniment for putting the world to rights."

Greg looks along the backseat, smiling; he watches Mycroft smile back.

_ We're going to have sex tonight,  _ he thinks. The dizzy flutter it sends through his stomach is partially nerves. Far more of it is longing. He's missed this feeling. 

_ Christ,  _ he thinks, as Mycroft rests a leather-gloved hand atop his own, their fingers sliding together,  _ please be at least semi-decent in bed. Please don't let me down now. _

He waits to make a move until the Bowmore's been returned to its polished oak cabinet in Mycroft's sitting room, a glass of whisky warming their blood, the silence cosy around them.

As Mycroft locks the cabinet and stands up, Greg steps in gently behind him.

He wraps his arms with care around Mycroft's waist; he rests his cheek on Mycroft's shoulder. His hands come to rest palm-flat on Mycroft's chest, feeling the quiet drumming of his pulse through his shirt—feeling him breathe.

After a moment, Mycroft's fingers lace through Greg's own, holding him there. 

Greg closes his eyes. He murmurs his soul against Mycroft's shirt. 

"We're friends... right?" 

Mycroft's thumb strokes gently over the back of his palm. "Good friends, I hope."

The simple stroking floods Greg's veins with need. He wants to feel the same gentleness all over, slow and careful stripes brushed across his skin. He wants to be adored.

His arms tighten with the realisation, a lump thickening in his throat.

"I miss sex," he murmurs, and Mycroft isn't shocked. He just keeps on stroking Greg's hand, listening to him speak. "I miss feeling like... I-I miss being touched. Being close."

Mycroft's fingers wrap around his own. They're lifted up to Mycroft's mouth, then softly, quietly kissed.

"Is that something you'd want to feel with me?" Mycroft asks.

Greg turns his head, pressing his nose to the nape of Mycroft's neck. 

"Yeah," he whispers. His heart strains with the enormity of voicing it, hopeful and afraid. "Y-Yeah, really bad..."

Carefully Mycroft kisses his fingertips. There's a pause, in which Greg suddenly hopes he hasn't gone too far—hasn't misread this, all of this, asked for something he's not allowed.

"Are you certain?" Mycroft asks.

Greg feels his insides ache. He squeezes Mycroft, slowly, holding onto him without words.

Mycroft stirs inside his arms. He begins to turn, shifting gently, and Greg loosens his hold in sudden fear he's about to be sent away. He's about to be told he's too much, too needy. He wants more than he can have.

Mycroft comes to face him, making no sound. 

He reaches down and cups Greg's jaw.

With gentle fingertips, he lifts Greg's head.

Never before in his life has a first kiss made Greg want to cry. He swallows the feeling back each time it arises, shaking, guiding his thoughts over and over to the comfort of Mycroft's arms wrapped tight around him, the tender and quiet stroking of Mycroft's lips. He doesn't know when he started to cling; Mycroft doesn't seem to mind. He just holds Greg, and kisses him, and runs a hand over his back in reassurance.

They hardly stop kissing as they make their way upstairs. Greg can't bear to let him go for even a second, unwilling for their lips to be apart. 

As Mycroft kneels at his feet beside the four-poster bed, kissing his bare stomach and undoing his jeans, he comes so close to passing out it makes him gasp. The need for skin nearly hurts.

Mycroft's bed is deep and soft; his hands feel gentle and warm. They coax him to lie back, to relax and be explored.

And as Mycroft starts to move very gently inside him, Greg realises he's fallen in love. 

He didn't mean to. It's been there unacknowledged for weeks now, having dinner with them, driving home each night in the car. He didn't want to name it, in case it wasn't real. 

It's real now. He can't pretend it's not there any longer.

The surge of fragility it causes is enough to take his breath. He wraps his hands tight around Mycroft's shoulders, panting with it, overwhelmed and needing comfort—Mycroft neither falters nor stops making love to him. He lifts his mouth from Greg's throat to his jaw, nuzzling, and catches Greg's lips in a kiss. Their tongues curl; Greg moans into his mouth, shaking. 

Mycroft whispers his name as they rock together.

They're in bed until mid-afternoon the next day, sleeping and talking and kissing, easing into sex as often as biology will let them. By the time they've reached the shower, then finally gotten into clothes, it's so late in the day and Greg's so hungry that the only possible solution is Chinese food. They end up lying in bed to eat it, feeding each other and talking about all sorts. Mycroft fetches the bottle of Bowmore from downstairs.

Greg cooks breakfast the next morning, naked but for one of Mycroft's shirts, his lover watching with amusement from the door.

In time to come, he'll joke that Mycroft fed him and he never really left. 

He doesn't want to be alone in his flat when instead he could be with Mycroft. It's just easy to be at home together; nothing else feels right. Even when someone needs to concentrate on work, quiet evenings on Mycroft's couch with separate laptops feel like they've shared some time. Greg's drawer in Mycroft's bedroom quickly fills; there's space found in the wardrobe for a few more of his suits. After their first weekend away in Scotland, Greg slyly allows his luggage to remain at Mycroft's house. He fetches his favourite pans for the kitchen, seeing as he cooks here so often. They're not being used in his flat. 

And they might as well be where they're wanted.

A year later, when a storm causes damage to the roof, Mycroft wonders aloud over the bill if a crumbling family seat with draughty windows remains worth the increasing expense to maintain. 

Somewhere smaller, he says, with better access to London, might perhaps suit...  _ us... _ rather better.

That is, he adds with a glance, if Greg would want to.

Greg goes out that weekend to buy photograph frames. He fills up half the car with them, big ones and small, and he's grinning as he sets off home to Mycroft.

He has a feeling that memories are about to be made.

_ The End _

  
  



End file.
